


Galateo; or, The Double Mirror

by Radar_One



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bosselot, Brainwashing, Completely Unsecret Crush, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Memory Related, Mind Control, Mind Manipulation, Pining, Requited Love, Secret Crush, Slow Burn, Spoilers, Unrequited Love, Violent torture, shameless fluff, syringes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-24 04:35:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6141665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radar_One/pseuds/Radar_One
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They asked him to build the Phantom. They asked him to forget. These are the consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. False Start

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things:  
> (A) Just in case you missed the internet: This fic contains major spoilers for MGSV. Be warned.  
> (B) Due to the nature of the text, some sections may be easier to read on a PC than on mobile. Apologies.

There is a locked box in his memory.

There he keeps the things that distress him. Memories, tinged with red, around the edges.

(This is how they were told to think of it. _Krasny_. Beautiful.)

These memories are different from the others; he has been told to remember things many times, and to forget others. These he keeps behind closed doors. (It is his trade, more or less; the majority part of it. Remembering things others don’t.)

But those things that he cannot be kept and be endured, that might break a man; the edges are soldered shut for a reason.

Click and crack, [carrot and stick].

The engineer, Emmerich, gets drunk on not very much alcohol and babbles about things no-one can understand, or bring themselves to care about. Once, he talks about a cat. A cat, you see, but it’s in a- (Emmerich stumbles over his words, constantly; the mark of one who would make a bad liar) -there’s a vial of poison, he says, and a cat, in a box. And the cat is alive, and the cat is dead, because nature abhors uncertainty, in all its forms.

His throat still stings, when he thinks about it; but that will pass. The fractures crack [crack] and spread; the gaps will widen.

If only he had been nobler.


	2. Beginning

A soldier is disappearing before his eyes.

Specifically, he disappears _upwards_ , at a rate of about 70 feet per second. He makes a little _thwip_ noise as he goes.

The R&D division seem to be having fun; the upper deck is surrounded by white balloons, each with a pair of legs dangling forlornly below. The upper deck looked like a little castle in the clouds, albeit one with more cadet recruit torsos emerging from the middle.  

To Miller, each one looks like a little bundle of dollar bills, floating gently away on the breeze.

He groans as he watches the little black specks that make up the current R&D team clustering around a jeep. They’re going to try and lift a _jeep_. He’d cry, except the doctor say he can’t spare the salt.

“Can’t fault them for enthusiasm.”

Ocelot can-

Ocelot can make noise when he _wants_ to, that’s the irritating thing; he suspects the man must be consciously choosing _not_ to. He suspects that, if _asked_ , the man would say something deferential about his recent _trials_ and not wanting to _disturb_ him any further; treating him like an old ‘Nam vet with night terrors. He suspects that it’s that that _tone_ , that particular _tone,_ that will be the key evidence in any future court martial. It makes him want to break things. Preferably starting with that over-large nose, and moving steadily upwards, in scale, until the glorious moment that he breaks his own crutch over his knee and flings both halves into the all-consuming ocean.

That’s what he _suspects_. But then, things have been more _suspicious_ around here lately.

“Waste,” he mutters. “400 GMP a turn.”

“Cost will go down once they’ve ironed the kinks out. We can’t all ride in on a white horse, after all.” (He says. _Reasonably_. He’s not picking a _fight_ , exactly, that’s the worst part of it. That’s not an insult; not _openly._ He’s being perfectly accommodating and couching a comment in the sort of half-joke that is the only type of joke officers in a closed base can safely exchange without coming to blows, eventually, and it’s nothing anyone could _actually_ identify as insubordinate. He’s being _deliberately_ reasonable, this Ocelot. With malice aforethought.)

He wraps his hand a little tighter around the binoculars, to stop it from forming a fist. “And how exactly did _you_ get here?” _Tell me, Ocelot,_ _how does a man without a country become a Patriot?_

(That would be _deliberate_ provocation, of course.)

“A wing and a prayer, my man, a wing and a prayer.” Always the smooth answer, always light and airy, tinged with ease, always filled with as much information as a little white balloon, and precisely as irritating as a cat being dragged down a chalkboard.  “A wing and a prayer.” He chuckles to himself. “Do you have that expression in Fukouka?”

It would be so easy, too. A solid swing to the right, with the binoculars to give it a little weight and emphasis. “Washington?”

“Strange. Not what it says in your file.” He shrugs. “Our fault. I’ll make the adjustment personally.” 

(It doesn’t bear _thinking_ about, this man being responsible for information on base.)

Faintly in the distance, he can hear the thudding of a chopper. Ocelot doesn’t seem to have noticed, which is gratifying. He suspects that his hearing has improved a little since Da Gwandai Khar; compensating, maybe, for his eyes.

(He swallows. Not exactly _gratifying_ , come to think of it.)

The chopper is visible now; a fast-growing blip on the horizon.

“That’s the prototype of the upgrade, isn’t it?” The tightly-bundled canvas is lying beside his foot- his _cane_ , and Ocelot snatches it up before he can confirm or deny. “I’ll take it down to him.”

 _Of course you will_. (That would count as very _deliberate_ provocation, of course. That would probably count as _personal_. That would probably start a healthy, combative conversation- no, a _debate_ , full of wheres and why-to-fors and _filthy double-crossing spy_ s that would lead to one or the other of them going over the edge of the platform; at this point, indeed, he’s not sure if he would care which one of them it was, and that thought is worrying; his heart won’t take strain at the moment, the doctors say.)

He’s pulled out of this pleasant consideration by a crash, and the melancholy tinkle of a hubcap, rolling away. He fumbles the binoculars.)

“Well, there goes the jeep.” Ocelot says, sadly, peering down. “Boss’d better pick up some more jobs, or we’re going to run out of resources. But I’m sure you guys in Command can even out the budget, right? Even the desk jobs count.”

**

(He cuts away before Miller can reply. He takes the steps briskly, two at a time, completely ignores a salute from Dizzy Agama (or someone who is almost certainly Dizzy Agama- he’s normally good with names, but he is moving too fast to be sure) and by taking a corner at a frankly _undignified_ speed, he is able to meet the chopper at the helipad.

He adjusts his scarf before he takes up parade rest; it wouldn’t do to _look_ like he hurried, of course.

(His heart still hammers in his throat, a little. It’s a sight he never thought he’d see again.)

 _Welcome back, Boss_ \- the number of voices has gone up, over the past few weeks; piping, rough, English, Darsi, Russian, flat and lilting. He nods as the dark shape approaches; his smile could be nothing but professional.

“Welcome back, Boss,” he says.

It’s pleasant, to see that smile again.)

 

* * *

 

** 1975 **

The tent was partitioned off with green canvas walls, but one was faintly translucent green plastic, and pulled back on large hooks. The air inside had the faintly sterile smell universal to hospitals everywhere. Efforts had been made to keep the worst of the desert heat out; as such, it was gloomy rather than stifling.

There was a figure on the bed. Still, entirely still.

(He blinked- in slow-motion, it seemed. He felt the faint press against his temples and moved. It was always better to move than to drop _._ )

It felt like he was pushing through the air. A cheap plastic chair was sitting by the bedside, and he sat down heavily.

(He thought the noise was the rush of wind, _simoom_ , a storm whipping up sand into a choking haze outside; it took a second to parse- it was the rush of air into his own lungs, the cloying hush of blood in his ears- his heart, like a great, far-off drum, struck by a giant, shaking the frame of his head.)

The figure was flat on its back, under white sheets, neatly folded, one arm above the covers. It _could_ have been a trick- it could have. But he _knew_.

“Boss,” he said.

He knew in the way he knew his own right hand had five fingers, or the way dust looks in strong, golden light.  

It was as though a cable had snapped, disconnecting his torso from his hips; in all of a second, he found himself sitting with his head into his hands. 

“ _John_ ,” he said.

There was no answer, except for the faint _queep_ of a monitor. 

(The _muscles_ in his _arm_ were shaking; he ran his fingers through his hair, to the back of his neck, tightening, tugging, until it hurt, until he felt the pain through whatever fugue state was cresting, like a black wave, at the edge of his consciousness. There; the pain; red and clear, like crimson glass, cutting through the static and the fog, and he pulled it in, revelling in it, accessing it for whatever help it would give him, until the worst of the moment had cleared, and he was able to sit up again.)

It couldn’t have been a trick; the face was unmistakeable, even in deep sleep. It was too proud; and that in the sense of a fine piece of architecture; too planed outward, forward in the world like the prow of a ship. Everything that had made it was written there, and he could read it, every line, every scar.

His hands were still shaking. They reached out, independent from their owner, and picked up the right hand. 

It allows him to detach, however briefly. Some loss of fullness in the abductor and flexor pollicis, that would be due to lack of use; not good for a gunfighting man. No palmomental reflex. Reduced flex at the lower joints of the first and second fingers- not as bad as it might be. Some drop in circulation. Cold.

He could tell that by the cold. 

His core muscles curled, abruptly, like a fist. He doubled over.

The dark green of the tent walls, the muffled light from the desert, the bleep and hiss of the monitors. Nothing that will allow him to switch away.

Beside the bed, on the makeshift locker, was a tin mug- apparently stolen from Private 11082, if the number painted on the side was anything to go by. Drooping over the rim- drooping, but still fresh- was a green stem. A small white flower clung to the end. It was small, and hardly decorative- a cactus flower; little more than a system for maintaining its own existence.

The water in the makeshift vase was running low- all water eventually did, in this desert of a place.

He stares for longer than he can recall.

**

The Camp commander, (who in truth did not like Greek nationalism as much as he liked the smart green uniform that went with it) was in an agony of indecision. The torturer had been in the medical tent for three-quarters of an hour now and (given his reputation) it was wise to assume he was last one in there left alive. However, headquarters had been explicit on what would happen if he was interrupted in any way at all during his visit.

He had only been picked for this task because he had some grasp of English. It felt unfair, somehow.

Both he and the guard were surprised when the green canvas door flapped back, and _Sharashka_ stormed in.

The little grey figure on the portable cathode receiver was a blur; the signal over the distance of tens of thousands of miles, but one could identify the aquiline face, if one had the knowing of it; it sat severe in grey-and-white, the visual equivalent of a cutting remark.

“…the extent of the problem, then.” The voice was reedy over the speakers. “Your esteem for Snake's ideals is well known, so you're one of the very few in the world I could entirely _trust_ with this. Which is to say, I doubt you’ll be inclined to act as a malign influence.”

(His pale eyes were on the screen; they had slid off every clean surface in the camp so far.)

“I was hoping to ask for your full engagement after four years; at the usual rate, of course."

“‘Create a Boss to surpass the Boss himself,' 

"Once you get an idea in your head, sir;" The torturer muttered; [ _almost_ to himself-] "well, you sure do stick to it."

"The world needs butchers as well as shepherds, Ocelot; more than that, dogs need their master.” Zero was still forward in his chair, the face sharp in the frame.  “Can I be assured of your compliance?"

A fraction of a breath. "Yes, sir, But-"

"Excellent. And some kind of briefing before you leave, primarily for myself and the medics at this point. We have Miller here, though he’s not awake. And your subject.”  

(The air was cold around the torturer, or so the foot soldiers muttered; he dragged chill behind him like a cloak.)  

“I have a day and a half before I have to be back in Ogaden." he said. "I can have a preliminary briefing in your hands by four tomorrow morning. Other than that, I have all I should need.”

A faint pause, then, mollified; the squeak of a wheelchair over the speakers, as the user shifted his weight. “I understand. We’re going to move Miller to a secondary site later in the month, but your subject will remain in the country for the process of treatment. Would you care to-”

A fuss of cloth, in the tent, as of someone standing up. “He’s not my subject yet, sir. As far as I’m concerned, he’s a dead man who hasn’t laid down yet.”

(The little box remained silent, though the face on the screen creased slightly. It _could_ have been a trick of the signal.)

“I’ll get my people to work on him.” A pause. “Per your briefing.”    

“Thank you, sir.”

(Diplomatically, the little grey screen switched off.)

(The camp commander froze. The one called _Sharashka_ moves without footsteps, they say; you have to listen for the jingle of his boots to hear him. At the edge of his hearing-

[It occurred to the Camp Commander just a little too late that what he was doing could technically count as _eavesdropping_.])

Now he can feel a voice, breath on the back of his neck.

"And once you've gotten that signed off," _Sharashka_ says, "you have 5 minutes to bring the car around. Otherwise,” he continues, “I'll make dealing with _you_ my top priority."

He did not have to finish the sentence; his English was poor, but bone-chilling terror bypasses the ear and goes directly to the spine. The pale eyes slide off him, _xematiasma_ , as he goes.

In Greece, the Devil is a pale man with pale eyes. In Russia, the devil is a man in a black suit who carries a bag of gold.

What a night of devils they have had.


	3. [First Gap] : Palliative

**1976**

People are always prepared to welcome someone who brings them an awful lot of money.

This transcends political, religious, and personal affiliations, surprisingly. Though the amount of money must necessarily correlate with the strength of conviction. The holy papal father Paul VI, in other words, could probably be persuaded to kick a hole in a stained glass window if the money was right; but it would have to be a very _great_ amount of money.

One imagines that workers in other noble professions- like doctors- would be immune to this kind of materialism. That’s not the case. Doctors, after all, have patients to look after; and a lot of money could buy an awful lot of care.

And if it came with a slightly odd request- a slightly odd plan of care for one particular patient- what did it matter? It was such an _awful lot_ of money.

“Dr. Constantinou,” he said.

“Mr… Ocelot?”

(It feels like making a deal with the devil, Dr Constantinou had said.)

“And Dr. Panayi,” he said, extending a hand.

“Major,” he replied, eyeglasses twinkling under the harsh sodium lights. “I look forward to hearing more about your plan- it seems _fascinating_.”

(It is such an _awful lot_ of money, Dr. Panayi had replied.)

(Ocelot considered the doctor. Bright, alert and with the faintly anti-septic air that one looks for in a healthcare professional. Capable of the certain amount of compassion and cruelty that medicine requires. A promising prospect, in other words. Constantinou, the less senior of the two, at least fulfilled the three qualities one wants in a medical doctor- lean, clean and keen- but had the occupied air of one who is present and yet is also simultaneously attending mentally to seven separate patients scattered across four floors of a hospital. Got into bed with military medical research for the money, perhaps, rather than pure interest. The surgical intern who had trailed in behind them had the look of junior medics everywhere- dutiful, worried, and semi-permanently exhausted. None were _obviously_ allied to any of the major counter-intelligence organizations; but it was so hard to tell with civilians, who tended to lack even the conviction of treachery.)

“The subject has lost an arm; but you read our preliminary assessment,” said Panayi, riffling through a thick stack of papers on his clipboard. “A suitable prosthesis can be constructed, of course, but I trust the, ah, “explanation” can be left to you?”   

“I’ll be here, Doctor. I should be able to smooth that over.”

“Excellent.” The older doctor beamed. “And, of course, you’ve seen the rather prominent shrapnel shard embedded in the prefrontal cortex. Unfortunately, the neurological team tells me we would be unable to remove that without an unknown amount of damage to the patient. Again, I trust you can, ah, as you say, “smooth that over”. There is the possibility of hallucinations, or possible verbal loss, given the object’s position in the frontal lobe, so I’ve asked our neurologist to prepare a briefing for you on what to expect.”

“I’d like to minimise the number of personnel involved.”

“Of course, of course.” (He’s not listening, and it’s irritating the one called Ocelot. He sees the fair eyebrows draw fractionally together.)

Panayi flips up a page on the clipboard, and brightened. “Ah, but it is embedded quite solidly in the skull; happily, that means it will probably stay fixed in place. We may even see some regrowth of the surrounding bone plates, if he is given time to rest. You know, it’s really very interesting how foreign body implantations like that can appear to “move”, “grow” or even-“

“Thank you, Doctor. I’m sure we were expecting much worse.”

He seemed nonplussed; but brightened again. “Oh! And we have more good news. I am given to understand that the object of imitation- aha, excuse my slip- the, ah, the _target_ is missing an eye? The left, if I have this right.” He flipped past a few pages. “Yes. The left. Important to get that quite correct, a-ha. Well, happily, we are prepared to make the subject look even closer to the target in that respect.”

There was a stunned silence in the room as this sunk in.

“είναι αυτός σοβαρός ?“ said the junior medic.

Constantinou was taken aback. “περιμένω- Spiros, you can’t mean-“

The doctor’s smile was bright, and unflinching. “Of course, we are prepared to do whatever is necessary in the name of achieving, ah, our desired results.”

The one called Ocelot was quiet. Apparently, he was considering a patch on the white-painted wall, some 8 feet away. And then-

“I trust you can have that scheduled sooner rather than later, Doctor. It’ll take him more time to adjust.”

“Of course,” said Dr Panayi with somewhat cloying enthusiasm. He made a note on his clipboard. “We should be ready to begin surgery in a little under six weeks. I trust that is enough time for your, ah, initial-”

There was a sharp bang- the junior medic had leapt off his seat, thrusting the back of his chair against the wall, and- as Ocelot watched- he stormed out of the room. The door closed with a second sharp slam behind him.    

There was an awkward pause.

“Forgive my young colleague,” said Dr Panayi smoothly. “We all had such fits of passion early in our careers, did we not? A-ha.”

“We surely did,” said the one called Ocelot.

“But- a-hem- I’m afraid my junior has yet to learn of the exigencies of modern medical research,” he continued. “So- we can have your agreement to begin preparation? The subject is still a little groggy, so attaining compliance should not be a problem.”

“Whatever you need, doctor. And if that is all you need-?”

“Of course, of course. We have your notes, and if you should feel any need to contact us before tomorrow-“

Constantinou followed along, although it would be more accurate to say that his feet followed them down the corridor back to the helipad. His head was still processing what had just been _agreed_ to (though, admittedly, a crucial part of his mind was, yes, still scattered across four floors of the hospital; some parts of the medical mind never go to sleep.)

They couldn’t have meant it. It would be some code, or some test. They _couldn’t_.

He was dragged out of his thoughts by a movement, or, rather, an _absence_ of movement. In the peripheral of his vision, the one the called Ocelot was watching. He started, shamefully; but, recollecting, turned politely to meet the man’s ( _debatable_ , whispered his Catholic upbringing) eye.

The one called Ocelot moves like an animal does. Which is to say, there is no conscious thought in it whatsoever.

It’s absurd, but-

His eyes (pale blue, grey; a half-colour not seen much in this part of the world) make him knock his chin up; he steps back, leans away, instinctively ( _the pale expanse of the neck, uncomfortably exposed_ ) before he realises how absurd he must look.

The pale eyes are measuring; evaluating.

Don't worry, Doctor," the quiet voice said, "you'll be making a new man of him."

 

**1976**

 (He has a report to write.

(And then.)

The guards manhandle the Phantom up; not that the subject is much trouble, at the minute. Pliant as a lump of clay; and just as biddable. His heels dangle on the ground as he is half-walked, half-dragged away. Somewhere beyond the great glass window the doctor, Panayi, is waiting. A plan is evolving, and the doctor is eager to begin preparations.

A little too eager, perhaps. A light clicks on in the anteroom, beyond the white of the walls, beyond the lying face of the two-way mirror; he can make out the Doctor’s dark, rounded shape, his hands hanging forward. He still nods as he passes; they are professionals after all, in one distasteful job or another.

Besides,  he can afford to take the time.

The other white room is four floors down; sub-basement level; the better to resist attack by rocket and air-to-surface missile. Not a feature many hospital rooms need, but then, this was not originally a hospital room. It was not originally a _room_ , but again, that is sure proof of the power of an _awful_ lot of money.

He exchanges a nod with the guard, running an eye over the man’s face to make sure it’s still the same one it was this morning (it’s not paranoia if one has enemies powerful enough to justify it.

(The door hisses open. It’s gloomy, beyond, rather than dark.)

Pains have been taken to make sure it is still airy, and clean, and reasonably cheerful. At the minute, of course, that is only of benefit to the nurses, the doctor.

At the minute.

He has to believe that.

(Βηθλεέμ αστέρι, the nervy doctor had said. White Star-of-Bethlehem.

He sits down; the chair is hard, but he is getting used to it.

The air is cool, down here; deliberately. It is so cool that the flowers have not faded; after six days, only a scattering of petals indicate that any time has passed.

He makes sure they are always here, in the other  white room.))


	4. Joy

The Boss is pleased with the new Fulton.

Pleased enough that three recent recruits are now dangling 70 feet above Command, awaiting pickup.

Their little legs are kicking, against the vivid blue of the mid-morning sky. It’s soothing to watch, in a way. Like goldfish.

The Boss is standing, hands on hips, head back, giving the three suspended recruits close consideration. His back is straight, despite spending a four-day stint in the rougher parts of Afghanistan. Even that has the quality of the minor miracle.

He’d recovered with frankly unbelievable [] speed- from the hospital, from the vast dearth of the coma. ( _Stop fussing_ , he had said to the medic [] who had been there the first night [The salt was still in the air around them from the whaling ship] - _I just woke up_.)

Not close enough, apparently; he can hear the faint mechanical cheep as the binoculars join him in evaluating the troops.

“Handy things.” He says, from behind the Int-scope.

“R&D are doing well, considering.”

( _They’re still finding their way around this strange, new figure; those who remember the old days_.)

His eyes are still fixed on the three distant figures.

“Miller tells me we could be doing better.”

He rolls a shoulder in a shrug. “There’s always room for improvement. Research isn’t my field, but I can see where the gaps would be. Transportation, noise suppression, traps. Bionics, for your arm. And we can always use more bodies, generally. The company is surprisingly small, considering the amount of work we turn out.”

“Too small.” He returns the binoculars to their pouch. “We can afford to expand. If your Intel is right, other PFs are going to start picking up on our radar soon. It’s only luck that’s kept us quiet so far.”

“ _Не говорите удачи_.” He says softly, (and mostly to himself-)

“Say again?”

(It had fallen out if his mouth like [] a reflex.

Of course.)

It takes him a second to drag the words across the barrier languages.

“An old proverb. My old instructor was full of ‘em. You would say “‘Speak of your joy, and it all flies away; speak of your sorrows, and with you they stay.’”

“Pretty fatalistic.”

“The Russian perspective at work, I’m sorry to say.”

“Not your own?”

( _He remembers who gave him this translation; and he does not he does not smile, but only just_.))

“Haven’t the imagination.” [crack]

A kindly hand is helping one of the recruits out of his harness, above them; the man is pulled, with shaky legs, onto the upper deck. Show over, they fall into step, back towards the stairs.

 “You know, Okapi asked me to sign off on your personnel file the other day.”

Okapi- one of the Wanderers. Close questioning still had not managed to identify _how_ these strange figures got to Afghanistan; but some were considered _compos mentis_ enough for at least paperwork (which Ocelot considered privately to be work fit only for _scoundrels_ ).

“Going behind my back? Shocking. A bitter sting. Can’t say I know what that feels like.”

The smile is thin. “The old school certainly doesn’t seem to like you too much.” Thin, but genuine; well, he knows. Has _been_ that odd man out, from time to time. Spies are never entirely _welcome_ , even on an allied base, and rumours always circulate, in closed-off places like this. No animals likes a rat, not close to their home.  “Nationality was blank, and he said I was the only one who could confirm where you were _really_ from.”

“Ha. Bull. He wanted an excuse to speak to you. You’ve seen the way they salute. What did you say?”

“I told him Russian was the _most_ true.” 

“You should have told him ‘the past’; after all, they say it’s a different country.” He holds a finger to his lips, a parody of the master spy. (A parody, but then a cheap laugh often negates awkward questions; and avoiding awkward questions has been his trade, more or less, these past ten years. (Well, that and _asking_ them.))   

The Boss pauses now; he leans his elbows on one of the railings that mark off the upper decks. The sun is still climbing, and it makes the water off the eastern side of the platform bottomless and green. He’s never been one for water, but he’s beginning to appreciate the moods of the base as it changes through the day, the week. 

He clears his throat. “ _Govareet_ -“

““Не говорите удачи. _Nye_ gav _areet udachi_. Lazy, you know, on the upper lip.”

The Boss shifts. “Did I really used to be able to speak Russian?”

“Like a native.”

His head drops, for a second; you could mistake it for a stretch.

“You’d be able to tell me what else has changed.”

It’s a little flatter, that voice, than he’s used to hearing. He takes a space beside him on the rail, leans back.

“Nothing I can see. Except for that fancy new horn.”

“Hm.”

Seagulls wheel overhead.

(It’s been his _job_ , after a fashion. After drilling the new recruits, after gathering up whatever scraps of information was available on local enemy forts, after thumbing through Herival’s Wild Plants of West Africa one idle afternoon on the comms (He never expected an Intel post to require so much _botany)_ \- asserting reality, after a fashion, for this strange figure; the man he knows and doesn’t-quite; [] the face that the wandering soldiers, the old MSF, address by the odd honorific of _is-that-you_.  

("I hate to ask this, but on the subject of gaps in the files- did I ever encounter a place called Coppertown?"  

It had taken him to dig onto his own [] memory. “Yes- in the early 70s. Some low-scale conflict- Recon mostly. For the Patriots.”  

“Thanks. Sorry. I- didn't want to just ask around. Embarrassing, you know.”

“A few gaps in your memory? After what you went through? Perfectly understandable.” 

He had grumbled then, low in the back of his throat; reaching to scratch at the back of his  [] neck. “Still.”)

The Boss turns his eye to the horizon; the sun is white, rather than yellow, in this part of the world.

“If the past is a different country, what’s the future?”

(It wouldn’t be _professional_ to frown, so he doesn’t. But still. This is the kind of thinking should be _immediately_ stifled in commanding officers, lest they catch Philosophy.)

“An opportunity for you to go out and get me more staff,” he says flatly. “Deep thinking is all very well, but I’m up to my damn eyebrows in SITREP and no way to process it. A base expansion wouldn’t go amiss, either.”

It would be entirely reasonable to be handed some form if discipline for that. Indeed, he’s been handed worse for less, in the past. But Mother Base is- yes, a new _type_ of army, and besides, the Boss is grinning- a low, sleek look, barely amused.

“Practical. That’s what I like to see.”

He is older now. Older, and wiser.

“As _you_ once said- Russians are _philosophers_. I’ll call in the chopper.”

“I need to restock before I go.” He’s already striding away, but he throws a grin behind him, over his shoulder.

“I’m _serious_ ,” he calls. “Get me more people, Boss. Use the horn if you have to.”

 _Raise ‘em high and bold, boys, The Devil is close behind_. It’s a line from one of the cowboy novels he’d consumed in his youth. But, he considers, as he watches the man walk away; it would not be so terrible a thing one would _run_.  

* * *

1976 

_This is the man who thought he could be the Boss, eh?_

(He will admit, he tried not to laugh.)

They open each session the same way. The light, the soft blades of the fan, slicing hours into minutes.

"This is the voice of your trusted advisor.”

The point of the needle sliding in, as delicate as a kiss.

“My name is unimportant; but you will remember me."

The words come easily to him now. They should; he has practise. It has a formula, as, distressingly, these things do; make it easier for him to accept his current role than his old one. Make it more difficult for him to think of his old life. Punish him when he does. Carrot, stick. (Carrot and stick produces a hard-working ass, as a rather unfortunately-translated proverb from his old handler ran.) He’s confident; from here it will be the work of days, rather than hours.

Ocelots are patient creatures.   

"The past few months have been nothing. You have been recovering in hospital." He leans on the table; lets the power sink into his voice. "You will listen, as I tell you your story. It is the truth, and you will remember it as the truth. You will obey. You will believe. That is an order."

Carrot and stick, carrot and stick.

(He smiles to himself as he circles the chair. It shouldn’t be so _easy_.)

“Of course, you remember the Boss,” he says.

“Do I?”  says the figure in the chair. When his eyes are open, they fall, naturally, on the surgical lamp (it had been placed there for a purpose, after all.)

“Sure you do.” He says. “You were devoted to her.”

(As his old handler told him repeatedly- had literally slapped into him- the basis of hypnosis was easy, so easy that stage magicians could do it.  _Finishing_  a phantom- making it so that the sleeper believed themselves to  _be_ the target, so utterly that it will be the last word from their mouths- is the work of long hours and infinite finesse. This was one of the techniques- his instructor's lip had curled as she spoke- it was  _imprecise_ , but necessary. Little memories, taken from the target and fed to the sleeper.)

“Even I remember. Your devotion to her was unconditional.” (It’s been two hours, so far today; he can just start to feel the cords move in his throat.) “And you were forced to kill her in 1965.”

He circles behind the chair, but won’t move in front of the chair; won’t let his face fall into the field of the mirror. He’s too good for _that_.) “The government that had kept and sheltered you both for your entire lives tossed her aside in order to avoid an international incident. You were furious. I don’t think you ever entirely recovered.”

(It’s true, after a fashion; it’s a rare kind of devotion that fires a man across countries, across continents; to war.)

“You spent every day wondering how you could change the past; how you could shape the world to her will. It’s what makes you able to fight.”   

(He had said as much. It would have been- 1972.)

It’s a memory he treasures, after all. One of the preliminary meetings for the Patriots. Washington. He remembered the dark delight in speaking Russian, there, amidst all the white stone buildings. He remembers the elbow that had dug into his ribs as he handed over a file.

“Careful, kid.”

“Простите.”

He had gotten a second dig in the ribs for that; but John was smiling. He wore a glass eye, when he had to pass in civilian society.  

“Remember what we’re here for.” John’s eyes were on the white spires in the distance.

Anderson’s man; someone junior in the Defence sector. Junior, and _amenable_. Not long enough in the military to have grown sick of combat, and the waste of the battlefield. Still hypnotised by the legend, and more than willing (by Anderson’s estimation) to sign a significant defence contract over to a series of shell companies (all operating under one suspiciously capacious banner) if he could grasp at the edges of the legend; meet the Boss in person.   

“What? Anderson’s man? He’ll fold.” He had said it dismissively; He was still relearning English, the shape and pull of it. It was a language without the inbuilt cynicism of the Slavic languages, and he was continually having to adjust the sneer in his tone.

The single eye turns to him; it is alive as the glass replica can never be.

“ _Не говорите удачи_. Remember, they gave me the Cross here; they buried her the next day.”

He finds he has no reply to that, cynical or otherwise.

(For a month or two, he had entertained the notion that it was some form of hypnosis; but he can’t take that idea too seriously. He is too (justifiably) confident in his own knowledge of hypnosis to consider it. There can be no doubt, anyway; when Boss rises to speak (possibly fractionally _before_ he rises to speak) all eyes are on him. Men snap to attention when he comes into view. Even dogs seem to like him. To hear him speak about a heaven outside heaven, a place for all soldiers-

It’s been easy, to fall in love with the legend.  
It's working, even now.

“Some people say I’m the greatest soldier in the world.” He shrugs- a roll of the shoulder. “Maybe I am. The fact remains; I know I’m not. I _saw_ the greatest soldier on the world.I saw her betrayed, tossed aside by the country she loved and the country she fought for. If I am alive today, let it befor that; to carry on her will.”

(The junior secretary’s junior secretary’s eyes have glazed over. He tried not to smile.)

“The Boss was killed by an inferior rival _because_ she loved her country. She let herself be killed in order to prevent nuclear war.” Snake dropped his hands- wide, scarred in 20 places- to his knees. “I’m selfish- it’s one of the ways I’m inferior to her. I _can’t_ offer allegiance to a country that sacrifices soldiers. With your men, we could make her legacy something worthy of her death. Something worth more than a cold headstone.”

One broad fist had landed on the boardroom table; not a warning, but a statement.

“If I am the Saint of Soldiers, let me prove it. Let me build a haven for the soldiers of the world. The disenfranchised, the routed. Those betrayed by their country.” 

(Anderson’s man was sitting up straighter in his chair, like an old soldier who has heard the call of the bugle. It’s almost too easy.)

“Let us establish a new country- no, a new _type_ of country. One without borders, that will ensure no soldier is ever forced to sacrifice their life in vain. Let your men pledge their allegiance to that; a state of perfect war forever.”

“A lot of _talk_ ,” Snake grumbles, when the meeting breaks up. When he has received effusive thanks with the screen that represents Zero.

“It has its place.” He says, measured.

“Ha. It’s _talk_ that got me here. I remember that face from the medal ceremony. Two stripes less, and half the stars.” He drew his greatcoat closer around him, as though against a chill; the bars on his lapel were swallowed in the material. “He was clapping along then, too.”

“But he signed.”

Snake sighs. “Straight and to the point. The Russian perspective in action.”

(He grins. Six months ago, he would have taken it as an insult. He can see the wrinkle at the corner of his eye, however; and there’s nothing dismissive in it.)

Snake starts to walk; it’s easy to fall into step behind him. “He signed, but I’d have expected him to. Hell, he’d have signed if we’d put forward Sigint’s crazy idea about the trained, poisonous…” He snaps his fingers, twice.

“Hamsters.”

“Are you sure? He seemed so sensible, four years ago.” He takes a sharp right on the white corner of Fifth. “Anyway; he’d have signed what we put in front of him. The man’s in over his head. Anderson was right to pick him up. The American military is big, too big; it the kind of gross excessiveness that allows dissipation to breed in the corners. The man was an NF Lieutenant, last time I saw him; the Peter Principle in action.”

“Who is he?”

(Snake laughs; his stomach curls (it’s not teasing _exactly-_ ) but he still grins back.)

“You never read anything that’s not triple-encoded, do you?” They skip back, collectively, from a braking cab at the pavement’s edge. “I should lend it to you; you’d get a kick of it. Applied to military terms, it means: never trust a commanding officer.”

"Not even you, Snake?”

His eye flashed, pleased.

“I’d trust your judgement if you made your own decisions _there,_ kid.”)

…

He draws himself out of the memory by force; shuffles his papers, to cover the gap. The subject doesn’t seemed to have reacted.

And…

Well. might as well get _this_ out of the way.

Zero has allowed him access to some of the Patriot’s more restricted files, in the name of rebuilding the Phantom to absolute accuracy. He is finding out some things that even he is surprised to find, or at least find _confirmed_.)

“-your connection was through military means. While several parties believe that you and she had a romantic, or at least _physical_ relationship, you have always denied these rumours.” He states.

(It’s quite embarrassing, to read out such things about one’s mother.)

He clears his throat, before he continues. The Phantom doesn’t seem to notice. “It is the truth, and you will remember it as the truth.” He turns over a fragile page; these will have to be burned. “You will believe. That is an order."

The fan is cutting its light into flashes; they reflect, dully, in the pupil of his Phantom’s eye. 


	5. The Devil [Making A [First] Pass]

**1975**

The mind will resist its unlearning.

Unfortunate, but true. The nature of man is tied up in his memories; even the body resists any attempts to erase these, the core of the self. Even if the subject is willing. More than willing. The man who would be the Phantom had pledged his allegiance with a frankly embarrassing fervour, but the name he gave under the pull of the rods was still his old name, his old serial number. His dead man’s name.

Heinrich Muller said that female spies would cry out in their native language while giving birth; some of the Afghani sects believe that the name of God alone is enough to break a man.

He’s found his own methods.

He stands behind the hooded figure, draws the syringe out of its case.

(Well, before that-)

He places his hand on the nape of the subject’s neck, letting the warmth of his hand seep into the man’s perception. It jerks, slightly. The guards aren’t delicate around these parts.

"Ssssh. Sssh-ssh-ssh. Here." the clear ampoule was glistening under the surgical light, with all the muted potential energy of a loaded gun. He watched the liquid tip as he inverted the little bottle, watched the faintly oily swirl of the contents. The plunger resists in a pleasing manner.

(It had been months since he had had to put these particular skills to use. Interrogation and what was broadly referred to as “thought reform” shared many similar sets of skills, it was true; but interrogation, as performed _today_ , shared too many similarities to a mere act of destruction. It had a checklist he could recite in his sleep; you ascertain what information the subject has, you ascertain the subject's weakness, and their breaking point will become apparent. It is merely a job of applying pressure until you have what you want. Certainly, the _state_ of the subject after the information was retrieved was considered something of an afterthought. This particular kind of cognitive restructuring, however, was an act of _generation_.)

The Phantom draws in breath through his teeth. He’s in pain, the guards tell him. Quite deliberately. Zero affords the best people, and it’s reflected in the quality of their work- they have patched and healed, and left just enough _give_ , just enough flex in the stitch, to stop the man from getting up. Just as insurance.

In case of the failure of _conviction_.

He’s under constant surveillance, the guards tell him. Still badly injured, for these are the kind of wounds that go a little deeper than the bone. Exhausted. Vulnerable.

Susceptible, in other words. A useful state. 

(The dead man- whoever he was- was now in the rare position that the subject of thought reform occupies. His role in the coming months would be an odd half-and half of benefactor and beneficiary, actor and audience. His resistances, strengths and weaknesses would shape the sessions to follow, even as he was erased. Collaboration, in a strange way).

The subject is stirring now; semi-consciously, he’s trying his cuffs (the shift of the tricep, pulling from the elbow; the way all the old MSF crew had been taught to break a ziptie. Still fighting, this one. Remarkable.)

Of course, the man’s shoulder joints had been paralysed before he was moved. It was perhaps an _over_ -precaution; but (Ocelot considered, as he tided away the little scraps of rubber ephemera that always accompany a new syringe) he had not gotten to this point in his life by being _incautious_.

The subject draws a breath, but his voice is hoarse from lack of use; what emerges is a thin hiss. 

He gives the syringe a double-tap, just to be sure. It gleams. A good piece of kit; military grade, surplus from the Dirty War. Not that the _Almironistas_ they could _afford_ to be selling supplies, but; that was politicians for you. 

There should be _something_ to honour this moment, he thought. Something engraved in stone; some line drawn in black and red, on the back of a palette made of tombstone grey. He licked his lips. (He could feel the red blood under the thin surface of the skin, alive and vital as it could never be, anywhere else. 

But now was not the time. A tribute.) 

What did they say in the old Westerns? 

[ _Raise ‘em high and bold, boys_ ]  

“ _A los que los muertos no tienen,_ my friend. To what the dead don’t have; your health.” 

Needles feel like a scratch. The subject’s heels brace on the floor; not actively resisting, but still trying to drive himself backward, like a sleeper in the middle of a bad dream. The mind resists its unlearning.

 The flesh resists, but the needle is too sure, too sharp. He sinks his mind in alongside it.


	6. Comms

He’s trying to work, but he’s being tugged off his seat.

DD is getting stronger, as he gets bigger; it shows, in the little pinprick teethmarks Ocelot currently has running up and down his guard arm. The dog currently has a hold of his pants leg, and is making a spirited attempt to drag the rest of him away from the desk with it. There’s wolf in him, alright, though there might be a little sheepdog; in the last week, he has been attempting to _herd_ members of the security team. What’s worse is that he was _succeeding_.

What a way to run a railroad.

DD, now bored, rolls over, exposing his belly, and give the soft yowl that puppies give when they are not sure why a human won’t abandon whatever boring task they seem to be so interested in and take up a more interesting one, like throwing sticks or simply rolling around in the sunshine.

To be fair, he’s not sure _why_ he’s still sitting here.

It turns out that the vast majority of life in the live-a-minute, die-the-next, mercenary, rough-and-tumble life of a Diamond Dog is _sitting._ Sitting and _waiting_. Sitting and waiting and reading and _waiting._ Thank god the Russian winter has given him the same capacity for tedium as a common housebrick, otherwise he might be forced to take some drastic boredom-relieving measures; and on a military base, this can be a surprisingly varied (and _dangerous_ ) choice of options.

He’s also learned more about _ravens_ than he would ever hope to have memorised. Perhaps some people would count this as a _perk_ of the job.

The comms chirps; with relief, he reaches for the button.

“Don’t eat it.”

“ _You don’t know what I wanted to ask_.” The voice is scratchy, but audible; 5000 km isn’t enough to break up the signal.

“I know you, Boss. Whatever it is, _don’t eat it_.”

 “ _I’ve got Emmerich’s location_.” That explains the faint noises in the background; the hiss of dust and, further back, mechanical noises. Voices, on the edge of hearing. Civilisation.   

“Hmm. Well, definitely don’t eat _him_. What are we looking at?”

“ _Four main, multiple entrances.  About ten heads, five more on the road.  Getting the guard rotations now. According to this guy-“_ the faint _oomph_ of a dazed guard- “ _they’ve got some kind of armoured personnel carriers as well. Not gonna be easy_.”

“Copy. What’s the approach?”

“ _There’s an outpost; I want to scout that first._ ”

“Understood. You wanna tackle it now?”

A grunt. “ _Waiting for nightfall_.”

“Affirmative. I’ll alert Miller and Support.”

He taps at the intercomm; in his ear, there’s the faint _whoomp_ of the Fulton; then silence. Breathing. The hiss and click of the phantom  [crack] cigar.

“ _Any recommendations_?”

He slides the map over; at this point, his annotations are so black and so thickly layered that they threaten to cover the original contour markings.

“Elevation’s always a bonus; get as high as you can. Looks like the approach is a sort of broad arena; there’s a collapsed building of some kind in the middle. If you have to-“

“ _I mean to pass the time. It’s three hours to sunset over here.”_

He frowns at the bottom of his mug- what is in there could no longer be called _coffee_ by even a generous stretch of the imagination.

“Biological resources. R&D want to develop upgrades for that cigar of yours. Take a look around.”

_“Ocelot. Are you seriously suggesting I spend my time gathering daisies?”_

_“Biological resources._ Are you telling me the Leader of the Diamond Dogs is too good to go scavenging?” He says vaguely. “How times change.”

 “ _Ha._ _It wasn’t twenty years ago that I was hunting Tsuchinoko in your neck of the woods_.”

What is lurking at the bottom of his mug no longer counts as coffee, he has decided; the balance has shifted decidedly into “biological weapon” territory.

There’s no such thing as a Tsuchinoko.

He reaches for a pen. “There’s you go. Nature’s own gift. The hungry soldier’s godsend. We need haoma especially, according to R&D. Get moving.”

“ _And what will you be doing?”_

He scratches, distracted, at the almost-certainly-now-toxic residue; whatever they make the coffee out of, it is _disquietingly_ persistent.

“What else?” (-he says it idly) “-Waiting for you.”

(…He realises, a little too late, what he has said, the _sound_ of it.

But there is the hiss and click of the cigar, again.)

“ _Haoma, you say_.”

“Five petals, arranged around a single stem, spiniform leaves, usually yellow or orange.”

“ _As you say, Central Intel_.” The comms clicks off. It’s the nature of the system that the Boss always gets the last word.

His eyes relax in focus; light is falling in thick golden bars, and he watches the dust.

...

_(Say nothing_ , is what they teach you first.

It’s a sentence he learned in three languages; first in Russian, then in English, then in the odd Russo- Ukrainian mix that was the patois of the charm schools. In Russian, it has the same kind of pleasing alliteration as a nursery rhyme, or a poem.  Say nothing, and nothing is true (ничто не истинно)- it sounds like something you would tell a child.

That is fair; it was taught to children, after all.

(Non-practical lessons were taken in grey concrete rooms; they surrounded the courtyard on all sides like a bad dream. They were universally hated, those rooms. Even in the height of summer, the walls were chill, and slick with condensation. It crawled up the back of your legs. Не ве́рьте - _believe nothing_. The second article. He would have been about twelve.)

Mother Base is a different world. That much has become apparent. Miller fumes, but they are a growing company; and the scope of that, what precisely it _means_ , is becoming clear. It means they are allowed _room for error_. It’s a concept he find vaguely terrifying; and refreshing, in equal measure.

Не Будьте. _Be nothing_. He would have already hit the ripe old age of 16 when he was taught this.

It may yet be in his nature to change; and he owes it to one man.

Не говорите. Не ве́рьте. Не Будьте.)  

Even five years ago, he would have balked, at speaking; but the comms takes such words and makes them sandy and hoarse, whisks them away on the wind.

DD has given up at trying to make fun; now he rolls, yawning, at the foot of the chair; he reaches down, thoughtfully, to scratch at the dog's ears.

Of course he’ll wait.

He’s never pretended otherwise.


End file.
